


For Old Time's Sake

by Anonymous



Series: Absent Works of an Anon [7]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Jschlatt follows Ghostbur and Tommy; but nobody can see him, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27923905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: See, just as Schlatt recognized the performer in Tommy, he recognized the opportunist in Dream. When he was alive, he'd even used that to his advantage for a while, although it was too little too late. But that stunt was the hair trigger that Dream needed to pull the final fucking plug, and Schlatt had known the second it ended that Tommy would end up right where he was now.Cold, exiled, and completely fucking alone. And no, Ghostbur didn't count — not really.OrThe reflections of the ghost of Jschlatt, after founding father of L'Manburg Tommyinnit is exiled for the second time.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: Absent Works of an Anon [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006947
Comments: 20
Kudos: 347
Collections: Anonymous





	For Old Time's Sake

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise surprise! This was a scrapped draft of another fic of mine, called "The Sound of Silence, at Last," that I ended up polishing to a better shine and making into a one-shot. I ended up changing it quite a lot to go along with canon, but eh. We could always use a bit more ghost content.
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, and feedback of any kind encourage my writer's soul.

Look, it isn't that he was particularly invested in the kid. Not really, anyway. Schlatt didn't _do_ 'invested' — not in things like this, with foundations so brittle he could practically see them wavering in the wind. It wasn't his prerogative, especially now that he was dead. Especially now that he didn't have any way to take the edge off of his constant thoughts; no alcohol would work on him, despite Wilbur's vague insistence. 

It was just interesting, was all.

It was interesting to see how quickly his last second babble had come to fruition — how quickly Dream had been able to twist his little threads around their necks and _pull,_ with none of them the wiser right up until it was too late. And none of them were, not a single one, too high on the victory and too lost in the flames. Schlatt knew that feeling well, knew firsthand just how easy it was to lose yourself in the brittle ashes of burning cities. He thought that one of Dream's men might get it better than the rest; the one with the flickering depicted flame embroidered on his chest to match the ones that blazed at his fingertips. He wondered if Dream saw it, the way those same flames flickered whenever they caught a glimpse of lime green and a porcelain grin. The way his smiles turned brittle with _doubt_ whenever Dream looked away, and oh, _oh_ was Schlatt familiar with that too. 

But those observations were only that. Passing observations. Passing glances that he shot at the backs of the people who'd mocked his death. Don't get him wrong though, he didn't really care about that, although Quackity's choice to eat a rotting heart was… weird? Fucked up? He didn't really know, it wasn't like he had a gauge for shit like that. Funerals were meant for the dead, and despite his transparent fingertips, he didn't really _feel_ particularly dead. If it weren't for the fact that people kept fucking walking through him, he'd probably even be able to forget. 

(That was a lie, of course. Yet another one to pile atop the others. It was hard to forget when he had to concentrate to touch, had to force his hand to nudge the edges of a leaf or to graze the edge of a sign. It was all too easy to pass through them, like they were — _he_ was — made of air. It was chilling, and he hated it. It was the only real opinion he had on it.) 

Now, whatever the hell was happening to Tommy? That was an entirely different animal altogether. 

He found out very quickly that nobody could see him. Even Wilbur — Ghostbur? — seemed to graze right over him, pass through unless Schlatt physically forced him to acknowledge his existence. And even then, Ghostbur would give him that creepy fucking vacant smile and too-bright wave, and it reminded Schlatt even further of just how dead they truly were. It was creepy shit, and he wanted nothing to do with it. But the invisibility, while annoying, he could work with. It was kind of a strange ability to suddenly acquire considering that he'd spent his entire life relishing in the exact opposite, but Schlatt was nothing if not good at improvisation. 

He spent a lot of his time just staring at the smoldering remains of their country, at first. Watched as they placed heavy scaffoldings into place and built up all sorts of shiny new things on top of the old. He watched as Tubbo rose to his position, grew into it even as the pressure caved in on every side. And sure, he had the kid killed once, but a part of him was impressed. He was man — ghost? — enough to admit that the kid was doing pretty well with the ashes of what remained. 

But after a while, he started tailing Tommy more often than Tubbo. Maybe it was because he was tired of watching a kid succeed at what he failed at for so long, or maybe he was tired of watching him do paperwork without being able to correct his mistakes. Whatever the reason, he found himself outside a lot more often, floating distantly behind a soldier without a war. 

Tommy had always been an ambitious kid, Schlatt had known that from the start. Even before all this shit, before the wars and the drama, Tommy had a particular fire in his step that burned the ground, fuel for his endless supply of energy. Once, it had been irritating. Then it had been deadly. 

Now, it was intriguing. 

Tommy walked like he was expecting something to happen. His hand was always braced on his weapon, even when he was cracking his stupid jokes and babbling so much that Schlatt wished his hands were corporeal again, if nothing else just to make him shut the hell up by force. But he walked with his eyes flitting erratically, and his shoulders never quite lost their paranoid edge. 

To his credit, Tommy did a fine job of pretending it wasn't happening; he joked and cheered and mocked, just like always. But Schlatt knew a performer when he saw one — he knew the telltale signs of a weary actor dragging up a brilliant mask. Like recognizes like, or whatever that saying was. His voice was just a bit too loud, just a bit too grating. His energy was just a bit too dynamic, just a hair too carefree. Schlatt had basically been counting down the days before the kid would do something stupid, but _man,_ this was something else entirely. 

He dragged a newcomer along with him. Another tall one, gangly and surprisingly well dressed — Schlatt would have complimented him, had he been… y'know. Alive. He had a pretty interesting style, face split down the center with enderman black and and an undetermined white on either side. Plus he had a crown-type thing going for him. Schlatt thought that in particular was pretty damn funny — kings didn't really have the best track record around here, after all. Tommy took the newcomer by the arm and dragged him headfirst into a scheme that was doomed from the start. They robbed George and accidentally burnt his fucking house down, and Schlatt had absolutely no idea how Tommy thought it was going to go anything but horrifically wrong. 

See, just as Schlatt recognized the performer in Tommy, he recognized the opportunist in Dream. When he was alive, he'd even used that to his advantage for a while, although it was too little too late. But that stunt was the hair trigger that Dream needed to pull the final fucking plug, and Schlatt had known the second it ended that Tommy would end up right where he was now. 

Cold, exiled, and completely fucking alone. And no, Ghostbur didn't count — not really. 

Dream had even taken his armour and his tools. Schlatt was honestly kind of impressed at his level of thorough cruelty. The man had managed to do what even Schlatt had failed to; he'd stripped Tommy of anything and everything that he'd ever cared about in a matter of days, maybe a week after he'd finally won them back. His friends, his land, his _pride,_ shit, at that point Schlatt was honestly pretty glad he'd died when he did — he'd only really lost one of the three, since Manburg truly had died with him, and none of the bastards had actually gotten the chance to kill him themselves. Although considering the state he was in when he _did_ die, it was probably more like one and a half. 

Even so, Schlatt watched as Tommy stared, drenched by rain so heavy he was shocked the kid could track Dream at all. He watched as Tommy's eyes followed Dream's boat all the way to the distance, and stayed stagnant even after the man was long gone. 

No, Schlatt wasn't particularly invested in Tommy's war, didn't understand the drive that had pushed him to sacrifice so much for something that was probably doomed to fail.

But even he had to admit, as Dream faded away into the distance with a satisfied smile on his face, that this situation was pretty shit. So when saltwater merged with rain, when Tommy collapsed to his knees and screamed into the open air, when Ghostbur tilted his head and asked about vacations, Schlatt merged into the background without a word. 

One more secret for the vault. For old time's sake. 

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a heads up, this one is probably going to stay a one-shot. I hope you enjoyed this all the same though; I feel like it would be a very different story from TSOSAL.


End file.
